The Bogeyman

I thought I met the Bogeyman once. That feeling you have when there is instant panic, like when a car pulls out in front of you, is something which most of us can relate to. The night I met the Bogeyman I felt that panic, only it didn’t leave in an instant; instead, it lingered over what seemed an eternity but was probably only a matter of ten to fifteen minutes.

I was in 6th or 7th grade, the same age roughly as our daughter Marah. My Grandparents had gone to Wednesday evening church services and for some reason I was allowed to stay home that night. Most likely I was either not feeling well or had homework. It was rare for them to leave me alone, but church only lasted one hour. What could happen in the span of an hour?

My mother was married to a raging alcoholic at the time. I often say that her “picker was broken”. They must’ve been fighting that night, but I was insulated from most of it and had never seen any of the awful drama face to face.

My grandparents didn’t drink; ever. The only way I really knew when my step-father John had been drinking was because his eyes were watery, he smiled goofily, he was loud, and he smelled like liquor. It was rare for me to be in a car with him and even more unusual for me to spend the night with them. I didn’t question it the time, although I now know that my grandparents, ever the faithful and persistent guardians, once again had my back. Was there no end to their love and protection?

It began with a phone call. I stood in the kitchen, listening to Uncle Bob tell me to stay calm. He said that John had just left their house around the corner and was “on his way”.

I said “on his way where?” Uncle Bob said “to you”.

He went on to give me very clear directions: pull all of the drapes, make sure all of the doors are locked and stay away from the windows. He made me promise I wouldn’t answer the door, no matter what, and then reassured me that “everything would be all right”.

I frantically ran through the house, pulling the living room curtains closed, locking the front door and then locking the very back door that would provide entrance a few summers later to another late night Bogeyman.

I made my way into my grandparent’s bedroom and picked up the phone in their room to call Uncle Bob back. Panting, I said “I did it, everything is locked up. What is going on?” He said that John was drunk as a skunk and livid. Furious, he was trying to find my mother and he was sure as hell she was at our house. He told me that John could get violent but that I’d be fine as long as I stayed out of sight and the doors were locked.

By now, I was starting to become terrified. I was alone in the house. It was just me and no one else. Then I saw lights flash on the living room wall as he pulled into the driveway. I saw his shadow outlined on the curtains as he came up the walk and then I heard him……banging on the front door. Hard, then harder. Then he started to pound, over and over and over. He was screaming, cursing.

But then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped. I thought maybe he had left, so I walked into the kitchen to call Uncle Bob.

It was at that moment my heart stopped, stuck in my throat, and I felt that I’d never take another breath. I could hear him again. In a distance, not screaming, but calling my name….”Marlys”…..”Marlys”……”Marlys”…..over and over. I didn’t know where it was coming from. He wasn’t in the front anymore.

Oh God, it hit me like a ton of bricks. He’s coming around the back yard of the house. I was in the kitchen and every blind on the back porch was open. He could SEE me standing there. More panic hit, in waves. I didn’t lock the doors from the porch onto the deck. He could actually come INTO the house!

Maybe, I thought, he was actually inside! In fact, I could hear my name better now and it was coming from the bedroom area of the house. He was saying my name over and over and it was coming from the area of my grandparent’s bedroom. I was crying by now, unsure of what would happen but knowing that I was alone with this crazy man who was drunk and angry. Sweat, racing heart, wet palms, lungs gasping….I was a walking textbook for panic, me in my little twelve year old body.

At that moment, I heard the garage door open. John didn’t have a garage door opener….it had to be someone else. As I tore open the door to the garage I was met in a bear hug. It was Uncle Bob, all 6’4/300 pounds of him. I sobbed and he told me it was fine, that John was gone.

I told him I thought John was in the house and as we walked back into my grandparent’s room, we discovered I had left the phone off the hook and it had been my Uncle’s voice I had heard on the phone calling my name. When he realized that I’d left the phone off the hook, he had raced the few blocks to our house to check on me.

To this day, I remember that night as being one of the most terrifying in my life. I never found out the details of their argument, nor did I find out what happened later that night. Once Uncle Bob got there, I went back to being insulated.

What I do carry with me is guilt. You see, that was my brief introduction to what life in John and my mother’s home could be like; the home that my older brother and infant sister were living in. They didn’t have protectors.

Millions of kids don’t have protectors. Those few moments of terror I felt and that I remember in such vivid detail even to this day, are just a small taste of what it must be like for so many young children who live in violent homes. I’ve been asked many times why I chose to work with struggling youth and I know some of it goes back to that night. It was out of gratitude….and hope that maybe, just maybe, I could be Uncle Bob to another Marlys.

Uncle Bob died three years ago and at his funeral some of us shared fond and funny stories about him. THIS is the story I really wanted to tell. The story of the night Uncle Bob saved me from the Bogeyman.

I thank you…..and haven’t forgotten.

Uncle Bob and his youngest daughter, my cousin Jessica